New Century
by aestheticisms
Summary: I doubt it's any different from your own way life. - StevenFlannery


New Century

_I doubt it's any different from your own way life._

* * *

So, he collected stones. Big fucking deal. She took a drag of an unlit cigarette, teeth pressed on the wrong end of the cancer stick. Red eyes followed his every move, the way his hands shook, the folds of his wrinkled shirt were barely noticeable under the fluorescent lights. She squints to get a better picture, clearer under her magnifying glass gaze, but she can't.

He's fuzzy all around the edges, and she's pretty damn sure she doesn't have an eyesight problem.

The fire haired girl turns to face her colleagues, all listening in rapt attention to his voice, lulled into a state of semiconsciousness, simply too occupied reliving the silver-haired man's tales of adventures, and fights. She clenched her fists, and unsuccessfully stifled a yawn. She's bored, bored, oh so very agitated by his calm voice, his voice range went from 'oh that's unfortunate' to the spectacular 'welp.' His voice, grayscale to her 48-bit, was distressing, and powerful.

She couldn't deny the power that simply radiated off of him, in waves of never wavering aura. She felt the warmth in her bones, and she absolutely despised it. Leaning forward from her reclining chair, tucking legs under and resting elbows on bent knees, she strained to see him.

His eyes never met hers, and she felt cheated. Spitting out the useless cigarette onto the floor, ignoring the sharp look of displeasure from across the table (Wallace), and the thumbs up from the seat next to her (Brawley), she lunged forward from her position, and slammed her fists upon the oak furnish that divided the gym leaders of Hoenn, a crescent moon shaped table with nicks and scratches from the countless of years its worked for the league.

He stopped talking. Not speaking, not reciting. The words scurried back into his mouth, and his lips pressed into a thin line, seemingly sewn shut.

"Is there something the matter, Flannery?" was all he stated. Deadpan. No emotion. Her fury bubbled, she wanted him to rage, lash out. There just _had _to be more to this man than a steely exterior.

"Yeah, there is, prof," all snarls and acid, she gave him a toothy grin. He was unimpressed. His lips twitched in an attempt to make light of the outburst, and he ran a hand in feathergray hair. His rings clinked against each other, and finally he pinched the bridge of his nose.

Silence.

"Mr. Stone, I apologize for this horrible inconv-" heads turned towards the brunette closest to him, part time schoolteacher, full time dream crusher, Roxanne of Rustboro. Steven Stone brushed her off, and gave her a weak smile, before facing the fire of Lavabridge.

Flannery grinned. "You never look at me. I find this horribly unfair for the rest of us. As the beauty of the region," Winona choked on the atmosphere at this statement, but the redhead continued, "I feel like you've got the hots for me. Understandable, reaaaaally, and you just can't bear to look at this gorgeous face of mine."

Tate and Liza laughed.

"It's like, oh noooo, if I look at her face, I don't think I'll be ever able to stop," Flannery jumped over the table, and leaned against it, abdomen fully exposed to the man in front of her. She noticed the flicker in his eyes, and she allowed her smile to grow larger.

"This is ridiculous," Wattson groaned, before taking his leave.

"And plus, this entire rock collecting shit, it's total garbage," she gestured towards the rocks on display, two evolutionary stones that would change the fate of eevees forever, apparently. "you're way too good lookin' to be doing this for fun. What's in it for you, huh?"

Everyone heard the good looking part.

Steven Stone simply let out another sigh, no words to respond with. He pursed his lips, and press hand onto his forehead. With the lightest of chuckles, he looked up, and locked eyes at the raving girl.

The grayest eyes, silvery in the light, met hers. Flannery was immediately silenced. Her breath grew shallow, and she pressed her fingertips against her lips. His eyes were absinthe, cold cut and deep. Eyelashes touched eyelids, and eyelids led to a rugged face, wrinkles formed on his nose, hidden by the most unconventional splash of freckles. She analyzed, and absorbed, unable to make another caustic comment, or remark.

She simply stared, and he allowed his lips to form into the smallest of smiles. The other members of the group were in absolute shock, many of them already staring with mouths agape, or phone at the ready for any moment.

"Good looking, huh?" He repeated, and couldn't help but smirk. Her cheeks flushed, and she rapidly wiped the color away with a haughty grin.

"Good looking, yeah. For a stupid rock collector," with a roll of eyes, she was back at her seat, nestled between Brawley of Dewford, and the once occupied seat that belonged to Wattson of Mauville.

Steven Stone gave her a glare, non-menacing, but brimming with the promise of _next time_, he finally continued his lectures.

* * *

**author's note: help how do i write i feel like my writing slowly degrades with every passing day**

**there'll be a part two eventually to tie up loose ends**

**also because sloppy makeouts who doesn't like those**

**whatever it's 12 am goodnight**

**-RV**


End file.
